


These Are Days

by nyoka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 12:56:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyoka/pseuds/nyoka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most days they get lost in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Are Days

**Author's Note:**

> For Tee, a belated Christmas present: a little domestic!boys+college!AU headcanon snapshot of sorts. Title from 10,000 Maniac’s _These are Days_. Originally posted [here](http://nyokafic.tumblr.com/post/39316071742/fic-these-are-days-dean-cas).

*

Dean squints against the soft grey light filtering in through his bedroom window. He moans as his body eases awake, and the old cottage seems to moan right along with him: the snaps, thuds, groans, and creaks of the settling foundation, the gusts of wind winding through the cracks in the aging walls.

Dean shivers, feeling dazed and sleep-heavy as he tosses the blanket over his head, burrows deep down under the thick fleece. This late in the year the mornings are cool and damp, sliced by the first-snow chill. Dean reaches a hand out blindly, his fingers brushing over messy bed sheets. The space beside him in bed is cold and empty, missing the familiar figure he’s grown used to waking up to.

Dean rolls over, buries his head in one of the pillows. Breathes deep. The bed still smells like Cas – sandalwood, vanilla, cloves. That Dr. Bronner’s hippie soap Cas likes to wash everything in. _Everything_. Dean groans for a moment, not wanting to get up, but knowing he has to. He lets another few minutes pass before making up his mind. He moves his body in a sluggish daze, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, and sliding his bare feet against the frigid wood floorboards.

Dean stands and yawns wide and loud, the muscles in his body stretching tight, his joints popping as he flexes. His body complains, stiff from too much physical activity and not enough sleep. It had been a long night. Not a bad one though. Instead of spending the entire night studying for their history exam like they’d planned, he and Cas had just talked. Okay and maybe talking had led to kissing, which had invariably led to fucking like bunnies all night long. _Semantics, semantics._

Dean slides bare feet over the old wooden floorboards, the slats smooth and worn down with age. He figures that Cas already left for his 9:00 a.m. class when he sees his well-worn trenchcoat, which usually hangs besides Dean’s leather jacket in the hallway, gone from its hook. Cas’ Birkenstocks, which usually sit beside Dean’s scuffed boots by the front door, are also missing. Cas doesn’t have much of a fashion sense, but considering Dean tends toward weeks-old holey jeans and thread-bare band shirts, it’s forgivable.

With Cas gone, the only thing around to greet Dean this morning as he turns the corner into the living room are the weekend’s piled messes and the smell of old coffee. Dean eyes the living room with apprehension, wondering if they will have a chance to clean it considering their chaotic class schedules this week. Dean thinks he’ll tackle the kitchen first, then maybe clear the the basket full of clothes in the laundry room next, and save the living room for last. Sunday was “couple’s” game night, and the dining room table is still covered with the remnants of board games and loose playing cards. Sam and Jess had owned all their asses at Scrabble (not surprising considering Sam’s an English major and Jess is a creative writing major), but Dean and Cas reigned supreme over Trivial Pursuit. With Dean’s pop culture knowledge, and Cas’ everything-that-ever-happened-in-history knowledge, they are a match made in Trivial Pursuit heaven.

The living room floor is currently piled high with Dean and Castiel’s combined epic record stockpile. Cas started reorganizing (and alphabetizing) their vinyl collection after their massive buy from a local garage sale last week. When it comes to music, they’re both into the classics. Cas tends toward classic jazz, Motown, folk, and Southern blues. Thanks to his Dad’s stint as a roadie in the mid-70s, Dean’s got classic rock in his blood, and his and Castiel’s record collections tend to mesh well together at their musical roots. On a typical game night, you’ll find their combined moody mix thrumming from the record player, winding from Miles Davis to Creedance Clearwater Revival, from Nina Simone to The Eagles. They both have a Johnny Cash obsession that’s a little frightening in its intensity; they have been known to spend hours getting drunk and waxing poetic over _At Folsom Prison_.

The cottage they live in belongs to one of Cas’ older brothers – the only one still speaking to Cas – a goofy little dude that goes by the name of Gabe. Dean and Cas rent the place out from him during the school year because it’s only about twenty minutes from campus. It’s far enough outside of the main town center that it feels like it’s their own private oasis in the piney woods. It’s also close enough to the lake and the national forest preserve that they’re able to spend long weekends hiking or swimming when they have a break from classes.

Most days the old cottage looks like it threw up a library. It sometimes reminds Dean of his Uncle Bobby’s place outside of Sioux Falls. Shelves and shelves of books, stacks of hardcovers piled up in every free corner, tattered paperbacks hidden in couch cushions and towering atop appliances and tucked underneath the bed covers. Dean often has to remind Cas – especially during finals week – about their “no reading in bed before, during, or after sex” rule.

Their furniture is an eclectic mix of hand-me downs and estate-sale bargains. The couch, inherited from Castiel’s grandmother, is a dark navy blue, which clashes terribly with the egg-yolk yellow walls that Dean’s been begging Gabe to let them repaint. Dean spent a couple of months carving their coffee table from a birch log and presented it, alongside a matching bookshelf, to Castiel as a birthday present last April. Something in Dean goes warm every time he sees Cas running his hand along the dark wood grain, a soft smile playing over his face.

Dean heads to the kitchen next. There’s a mess of dirty dishes piled in the sink, empty Chinese noodle boxes and beer bottles on the counter. The fridge is covered in sticky-note reminders to take out the garbage, to call Ellen about Christmas dinner, to send an anniversary card to Kali and Gabe. There’s a slew of old postcards and photographs tacked to the fridge as well, documenting their adventurous three years together. A snapshot of their camping trip with Sam last summer to the Grand Canyon. A shot of Cas and Dean winning Best Dressed Couple last Halloween – Cas with his big fluffy angel wings and full-body armor, and Dean with his sarape and cowboy hat. They’d both gone as the things they always felt they’d be the best at in some crazy alternative life – the ones where they weren’t just two geeky college students with too much debt, too much imagination, and not enough free time. Under the Halloween photo is a cool grainy shot of Cas and his sister Anna sitting under Anna’s favorite ancient Oak tree out back, the sunlight filtering down through the leaves and creating halos over their heads. On the side of that picture is one of Dean’s favorite photos: a shot of him, Cas, and Dean’s godson Ben down at the north shore, the salt water lapping at their bare feet.

Cas comes from old East Coast money, but you wouldn’t know it. He likes things simple, non-lavish, garage-sale hippie chic. He likes words and ideas more than he cares for money and material possessions. Cas is four years older than Dean, but sometimes Dean feels like Cas has lived lifetimes. The guy had a falling out with his family a few years ago and left college (seriously, who drops out of Harvard? Well, apparently _Cas_ does). He rebelled against his overbearing family and went off searching for God, the meaning of life, while trying to make his own way in the world. Cas spent some time traveling to parts unknown, finding himself: volunteering at refugee camps and feeding starving children and meditating with Tibetan monks and protesting wars and saving whales and cleaning off shore birds in oil spills and other things Dean teases him about when Cas mentions that he feels like he’s not giving back enough. _We’ve got a whole world to save, Dean_ , he’ll say on days when it’s just the two of them sitting on the Impala under the wide open sky. And it’s not like Dean disagrees. But whereas Cas is about the bigger picture (the macro), Dean’s often more focused on the smaller acts (the micro): splitting his lunch with the homeless guy on 47th, volunteering at the fire department, or playing basketball with Ms. Mosely’s foster kids at the local Y.

Cas is bred for the bigger battles, Dean suspects. The tragic epics he spends his nights composing essays about. There’s an old wisdom settled into the other man’s bones, something deep and timeless to match his fierce temper and penetrating gaze. Dean runs his finger along the edge of the book Cas left lying open on the couch: _History of the Peloponnesian War_. Cas is a Classical Civilizations and Anthro double major at Kansas State, or he was as of last week. It’s been four years since Cas returned to school from his globe trekking, and he’s pretty much changed his major a half dozen times or more since Dean met him – History, Archaeology, Art History, Philosophy, Latin, Religion, Comparative Literature. Dean can’t keep up, but all he knows is that Cas likes dead languages and dead people who did crazy things to get dead.

Dean would tease Cas about it if Dean himself didn’t spend 90% of his time with geeks even more socially-awkward than Cas at State. Dean is currently toiling under the oppressive hand of the Engineering department. He complains about it to anyone who asks, but most people who know him well know he loves it. Dean’s even debating continuing on into the graduate program in automotive engineering. He likes the idea of designing cars, making fast cars faster, and building better engines. Fuel-efficient engines, because you know, Cas rubs off on him in more ways that one.

_Dean and Castiel_ : most people say they work well together. Cas likes old books and old libraries, and Dean likes old design and old engine parts. Cas likes the metaphysical, and Dean likes the physical. Cas tends to get lost in the past, and Dean tends to get lost in the future. Most days they get lost in each other.

It’s good; this way they keep each other in the present.

*

The first thing Dean noticed about Cas were his eyes, which seemed to see more than they should. A little too observant, especially of the things Dean worked so hard to hide.

Dean had hated it at first, feeling too vulnerable under the other man’s gaze, too stripped bare, too exposed. All his fault-lines and cracks and failures on display. But Cas didn’t seem to dwell on that stuff; he seemed to see beyond the bad, to something better inside of Dean. Dean still doesn’t understand what Cas actually sees in him, even after all these years together, but whatever it is, Dean’s happy that Cas stays, finds Dean worthy of being his best friend. It’s nice feeling like someone knows you almost as well as your family does, and still sticks with you, stands by your side, through thick and thin, through family fights and final exams, through bad dreams and depression. There’s something about the way Castiel listens to Dean, with the sort of quiet gentleness that means he isn’t judging Dean, or upset that Dean isn’t living up to something greater. _You’re not a machine, Dean. You’re human_ , Cas had told Dean once, and it’s something Dean always struggles to remember. He’s not responsible for the entire world, although at times it feels like he needs to be.

Dean likes Castiel’s silences too. They often feel heavy and solemn, thick with some kind of hidden and deeper meaning. It’s not surprising considering Cas spent six months in silent retreat at a Tibetan monastery during his travels; Cas had to learn how to communicate beyond words.

But it’s something else entirely when they’re just sitting together on the couch, watching each other, hands held, palm over palm. Cas’ eyes travel over Dean, and Dean feels raw and exposed, too damn honest, but he knows it’s only for Cas that he shows this much of himself. In Dean’s mind, Cas is like the Hunter’s moon, a cool light into the darkness, a sign of safety and guidance. Something ancient and brilliant, always leading him home.

*

Dean Winchester doesn’t fall in love. Except maybe when he does. Like three and a half years ago when he met this nerdy Religion major with a funny name and bad fashion sense. The kid showed up to the first day of _Intro to World Religions_ in a trenchcoat, a rumpled suit, and a crooked tie. _Job interview_ , the kid explained. _Tax accountant?_ Dean inquired. The kid then spent the entire semester sitting a little too close to Dean for comfort. Dean pretended he minded. Dean pretended he didn’t notice the way they both stared a little too long when their eyes caught, stayed behind a little too long to talk after TA sessions. The way his heart raced a little, his hands got sweaty, and his nerves got jittery every time Cas came near.

Dean pretended he didn’t notice. Until Cas took the initiative and threw him up against an alley in the back of Lancaster Hall and kissed the living hell out of him. Kissed him like it was the end of the world, and this was the only chance they’d get to do this.

*

They learned each other in shifts and spurts after that.

For instance, Dean loves classic DC Comics, and Cas loves vintage handmade chapbooks; Dean loves singing in the shower, and Cas loves humming as he cooks dinner (dude makes the world’s best spaghetti and meat balls, hands down).

Cas loves giant grapefruits from the Farmer’s Market; he eats them almost every day, biting into them and letting the juices run down his lips, and licking it up like it’s the gods’ own nectar. Dean loves apple pie, the sweeter the better, the scent reminding him of summer days in Lawrence, his mother’s laughter, his family, healthy and whole.

They both love cheeseburgers, and go out to eat every Friday night at _Harvelle’s Roadside Diner_ , where they order two chocolate milkshakes, a bowl of onion rings, and two Double Harvelle Burgers with cheese, lettuce, tomato, caramelized onion, and toasted bread slathered in Thousand Island dressing. Sam calls them heart-attacks on buns, but given Dean and Cas’ exuberance in bed afterwards, Dean thinks they tend to work off the extra calories.

In the summer, Cas tans, while Dean freckles. Dean won’t be caught dead in shorts, while Cas spends days in khaki cut-offs and flip flops. In the winter, Dean’s always cold, layering himself in undershirts, thermals, henleys, and flannels. Cas, in comparison, is a constant furnace, and his hands are always somehow inexplicably warm, which comes in handy when he’s touching Dean’s neck and shoulder and cheeks, spreading that warmth deep into Dean’s own skin.

Dean loves coffee, a dark roast blend with two spoonfuls of sugar. Cas loves tea, a strong black or gunpowder bag with just a dollop of milk and honey. Cas started drinking masala chai when he was in India, and it’s still his favorite; Dean loves to lick the spicy flavor from Castiel’s mouth when they’re making out.

They both hate mornings. Dean always misses his alarm by half an hour, and then he has to rush through breakfast, burnt toast and coffee on the days Cas sleeps in too. Cas will begrudgingly get out of bed in time to see Dean off, eyelids heavy and hair wild. He’ll wander into the kitchen, barefooted, bare-chested, and wearing only Dean’s boxers, and press a goodbye kiss to Dean’s neck, crowding him back against a counter when Dean teases him about the bird’s nest on his head.

They both like a little quiet time for themselves. Dean spends a few hours every week refurbishing old cars, bringing things once thought far-gone and disposable, back to life and usefulness. During that time, Cas likes to paint, capturing the beauty of the world onto canvas or paper. His hands are always so steady and careful, and they move in long, elegant strokes as he works, spreading charcoal, oil, or acrylic into fantastical design. The way Cas sees the world is something Dean will always envy: the beauty in creation, the holiness of every moment.

*

They both love fucking. Slow or fast, wild or insanely focused. Cas loves pressing Dean down into the cushions of Grandma Milton’s couch, and Dean loves circling his hands around Castiel’s sharp hips, holding on to the other man for dear life.

It can be so damn good, so sweet, so achingly perfect. There are places on Castiel’s body that Dean’s gotten lost in for hours at a time. Dean loves taking Cas into his mouth, rolling his taste around the back of his tongue; he loves the moment when Castiel’s seed runs sticky and warm down his chin. He loves the feel Cas moving inside of him; he loves when they come together, when their rhythms and heartbeats are so in sync, it’s like they’re the same person.

Cas once said that Dean makes him feel _real_ , bodily and whole, a part of the world. That Dean makes him feel like there’s something worth digging into the earth for, getting dirty and sweaty and physical. For Dean, Cas makes him feel like he’s coming alive, for the first time in years, like he’s been resurrected, snatched up from the darkness, and given a second lease on life.

Cas makes Dean feel like there’s something out there still worth having faith in.

*

It’s a Sunday in mid-December, two days into their winter-term break, and they’re cuddled together on the couch, reading. It’s snowing outside, and a mug of hot chai tea sits on the low coffee table, next to Dean’s half-empty bottle of beer and tin of Christmas popcorn. Dean is sprawled across the couch, wrapped in a quilt, legs stretched out. Cas is sprawled on top of Dean, the back of his head resting on Dean’s chest, the length of his body tuckered between Dean’s spread legs. Dean is a hundred pages into his winter-break reread of _Cat’s Cradle_ , and Cas is quoting his favorite lines from _Man’s Search for Meaning_. In the background, there’s the low hum of Louis Armstrong, his horn blowing smoothly from the record player.

"A thought transfixed me," Castiel reads, one hand held softly over Dean’s leg and his other holding the paperback in both of their fields of vision, his voice soft as his eyes follow the lines of type. "For the first time in my life I saw the truth as it is set into song by so many poets, proclaimed as the final wisdom by so many thinkers. The truth – that love is the ultimate and the highest goal to which man can aspire. Then I grasped the meaning of the greatest secret that human poetry and human thought and belief have to impart: the salvation of man is through love and in love. I understood how a man who has nothing left in this world still knows bliss, be it only for a brief moment, in the contemplation of his beloved."

"That’s pretty awesome," Dean says, dropping his own book on the couch’s armrest, and running a hand across Cas’ stubbled cheek.

Cas twists his head around and looks up at Dean. “I feel the revelation to be very true,” he says. “From what I’ve seen of this world, of life.”

Dean smiles softly, nods. “Yeah, me too.”

Cas’ eyes linger on Dean for a long moment, and then he pulls himself up and settles his body over Dean’s thighs. His legs loop with Dean’s, and his hand weaves up Dean’s chest, brushing a nipple and tracing a collarbone before resting against Dean’s neck.

"I love you, you know," Cas murmurs. The soft, low gravel of his voice and the deep truth of his words hit Dean hard. He cradles Dean’s face, eyes watching him closely.

Dean leans in, rolls their bodies together, pushing them deeper into the couch. He buries his hand in Cas’ hair, kissing those full lips, feeling the rasp of stubble against his face. “I love you too,” he rumbles, lips barely moving against Cas’ soft mouth.

Cas pulls back and takes one of Dean’s hands, lacing their fingers together and resting them against his chest. “I’m going to marry you some day, Dean Winchester,” he whispers, and Dean’s too momentarily shocked to say anything, but he’s thinking so loud he’s sure Cas can hear: _God, yes. Please, Cas. Please._

There are some truths even the silence can’t hide.

*

Later, in the quiet of their bedroom, books and papers and DVDs tossed to the floor, they come together, naked and needy.

"Hurry, Cas," Dean says, falling back onto the bed, feet and hands tangling in the comforter and sheets.

Fortunately Cas is quick and agile, pinning Dean down, his motions like a predator cat with its prey. He pushes both of Dean’s arms above his head, fitting their bodies together in all the right ways. Dean bucks up into him, but he’s not really trying to get out from under Cas’ hold. Cas is stronger than he seems, and he’s so perfect when he’s like this: the solid roll of tight control brimming off of him, the taunt muscles of his chest as he breathes, the narrow curve of his body as he moves. Every part of him long and flushed and pressed against Dean.

"Is this what you need?" Cas says, voice a soft rasp, teeth pressing into Dean’s neck.

"Fuck, man," Dean growls, a low thrum of heat building in his belly as Cas drags his bottom lip along Dean’s jaw, gently nipping at Dean’s ear.

"Is it?" Cas hums into his skin, and Dean’s body curves up to meet his touch.

"Yes," Dean breathes out, turning his head to the side and muffling a contented sigh in the pillow as Cas holds Dean’s wrists above his head and thrusts against him, skin meeting slick skin.

Dean twists beneath him, soft sounds of need falling from his lips as Cas whispers to him in another language, pressing tender words and kisses to Dean’s neck before pressing a lasting kiss to his lips. The kiss turns heavy and intense as they melt into each other, tongues twining, slick and hot. Dean catches Cas’ lip between his teeth, and Cas arches down into him, hips stuttering as they rub together.

Cas looks down at Dean with half-lidded eyes, smiling in that soft way he does sometimes. “What are you thinking at this very moment?” he asks, voice hushed.

Dean’s chest tightens. He can’t breathe for a moment. He whispers, “That I’m gonna marry you some day, Cas.”

Cas leans down and presses a kiss to Dean’s lips. Says softly, “I’m glad we’re on the same page then.”

Dean’s hands are shaking as Cas releases his wrists. He slips his palms over the sweaty skin of Castiel’s hip, fingers fitting into the grooves. Cas grinds down harder, and his teeth find the curve of Dean’s neck, biting softly there.

Dean groans, fisting a hand in Cas’ hair. “ _Castiel_ ,” he murmurs, giving voice to his friend’s full name.

Cas speeds up his thrusts, hips slamming down against Dean’s, his cock slipping between Dean’s spread thighs expertly, his hands cupping at Dean’s hips, framing them as he moves. Dean’s own fingers slip where they dig into Castiel’s hip. Blood pulses just under Dean’s skin, his dick throbbing thick and full and ready to burst.

The way Cas moves gets to Dean almost as much as the burning press of his cock. Dean’s fingers grip tighter into Castiel’s flesh, and he feels the shift of tendons and sinew under smooth, sweat-slicked skin. For the longest time, Dean can’t hear anything but Cas’ quiet hitching moans, the slick slide of their bodies grinding together, and the panting whisper of his own breathing.

Before Dean even realizes it, Cas’ body is wracked by tremors, and Dean hears his sharp cry burn across the air, feels the warmth of his seed spilling across their bellies.

"Oh god," Dean moans, his spine arching up in an answering movement to Cas’ downward final thrusts. "Touch me, please," he keens, half sobbing, half moaning. His body jerks forward as Cas reaches a hand between them, pushing down between Dean’s legs, squeezing Dean’s cock in the warmth of his callused palm.

Dean’s mind goes blank with the touch, and all he feels is the pressure of Castiel’s hand. Dean slides the length of his cock into the tight heat of Cas’ fist, pressing in hard, then harder. Cas tightens his grip, and Dean covers Cas’ hand with his own, and they move together, jacking Dean slowly. When Dean comes, he’s helpless to it, fucking into their joined fists with sharp, sporadic thrusts.

They’re high on each other for long moments after, their whispers sloppy-rough with sex. In the distance, Dean hears the sound of wind and ice hitting the old cottage, the squeal of pipes expanding with the winter cold, the creaking of the old wooden floorboards.

"Does this mean we’re engaged?" Cas asks long moments later, after they’ve separated and collapsed, dirty sheets twined around their legs.

Dean lets his head tilt to the side to see Cas watching him, eyes gleaming in the dark, and he can’t help trailing his gaze along the soft lines of Castiel’s face as he resettles next to him.

"Dunno," Dean says, his heart lodged in his throat. "Do you want it to mean that?"

"Who else but me would put up with your dirty laundry?" Cas says, lips quirked.

Dean’s laughing when Cas kisses him, but he falls quiet at the feel of Cas’ fingers combing through his hair as Dean presses his head to the other man’s chest. Dean splays a hand over Cas’ heart; he can feel and hear it beating faster.

"I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this," Dean says mostly to himself.

"What?" Cas inquires, adding after a beat, "Loving me or being loved by me?" His words hold the kind of naked openness that use to freak Dean out.

"Both, I guess," Dean says, feeling a little less grounded, more shocky and nervous about where the conversation might go. Fortunately, he’s suddenly surrounded by the slick heat of their tangling limbs, and he can focus his attention on the wet, hot place where their bodies meet.

"Maybe there’s no getting used to it," Cas says, running his fingers against Dean’s temple. "Just like there’s no getting used to the smell of your dirty socks."

"Kiss my ass, buddy," Dean mutters, pinching Cas’ hips and sending the other man howling as they wrestle down into the bed.

"Gladly," Cas huffs, pulling Dean closer as they fall against each other. They both like post-sex cuddling, although Dean’s always loath to admit it. Cas, with his heat and long arms, pulls Dean close, and Dean grips him closer as they roll into the center of the bed. They move and move together, curling around each other, three years of familiar touches and well-mapped rhythms sliding into place.

In two weeks, classes start up again, and Cas has a Senior-year thesis to write on some aspect of ancient civilization Dean never knew existed, and Dean has a high-performing engine to build from the set of plans he’s been working on all year. And Dean thinks maybe he and Cas are sort of engaged now, and he’s wondering how Sam’s going to react, and he’s wondering if they’ll be able to convince Gabe to let them finally paint the house, and he’s wondering if Cas will let him build a snow man before shoveling the yard.

But Cas kisses him then, and Dean stops wondering. They have time yet to figure it all out.

-fin-


End file.
